


every little thing i do you are

by atermoiements



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 06:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6108475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atermoiements/pseuds/atermoiements
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She is asleep by his side and still gripping his hand, tired and aching all over but his weight keeps her grounded, keeps her rooted to this earth where she is Maka Albarn: daughter of famous meister and weapon duo, future death weapon technician, in love with Soul Eater Evans, a boy with two last names and one soul and one smile that she would find hard to live without."</p>
            </blockquote>





	every little thing i do you are

There’s a long list of words that could describe Maka Albarn.

 

The more flattering choices are obvious:  _ studious, brave, hard-working _ , and they all spell themselves out across her face; dancing across her eyes and tip toeing along her arm, wrapping themselves comfortably around the fists she makes  _ (so small, but the punch they pack is greater than their size) _ .

 

Those that aren’t as becoming aren’t as forward:  _ insecure, stubborn, afraid.  _ They hide themselves on the back of her neck as she turns red, in the stiffness of her shoulders when she refuses to be swayed and causes her knees to tremble when she stares death in the face. She holds herself tall, she always has, but even her partner can feel the way her fingers shake before clutching onto him with every ounce of strength she possesses. 

 

***

 

He doesn’t waste time on romance, on waxing poetic and overthinking, overthinking,  _ overthinking _ . He leaves that to Maka - always nose deep in a book, head running at hundreds of miles per hour, jumping and leaping through hurdles to come to conclusions he could’ve never thought of. Sometimes he’s thankful for it, other times: he’s not. 

 

He knows he loves her. He figures he must’ve known it was inevitable, how she curled her fingers around his hand and shook, firmly, smiling as though they were just becoming friends and not two kids (now  _ partners _ ) about to throw themselves into the fray. As if his sharp-toothed grin didn’t leave her wanting to inch away, as if there was a value, a worth to him unprecedented by his family name (not that she’d know, seeing as how he threw it away). She’s tone deaf and has the musical sensibilities of a toddler, but she thinks his song is “nice” and that’s enough. 

 

He remembers this as he feels himself become cut open, a perfect diagonal of heat and hurt and _blood_ across his chest, and while dying is not a priority, not nearly _,_ he wishes that if he had to go out like this at least her smile could be the last thing he remembers. He counts himself lucky when it isn’t, when the next thing he recalls seeing is her by his bedside, slouched over in a chair, her hair loose sandy curtains drawn over her face, her hand entangled with his. 

 

He knows he loves her, and he does not regret it. 

 

***

 

She’s much less straightforward about coming to that conclusion. She finds herself awake in the middle of the night, jumping and climbing and struggling to reason all at once, wondering, “ _ do I? don’t I?”  _ finding a million reasons why  _ yes,  _ she does; but a million why  _ no,  _ this isn’t her, this is the resonance, this is the moment, this is the pressure, this is history repeating itself. Her life is a novel and she’s become a master at picking out the literary devices:  _ dramatic irony, chekov's gun, foreshadowing.  _

She changes her conclusion almost nightly, but it doesn’t matter regardless as she is doomed: either to repeat a failure her parents had taught her to avoid, or to sit listless every evening continuing to wonder: “ _ do I? do I? do I? and what if I  _ do?” Battle is simple, uncomplicated. Feelings are a whole other world from her, and she’s unsure if she’s grateful for it. 

***

She’s watching him rise in slow motion, arms splayed out in front of her as if he was a shield, and in the back of her mind a voice whispers, “ _ no, no, this isn’t how the story ends, _ ”, and before Maka can relay this message, before she can force him back into the palm of her hand instead of in front of her body, there is blood spilling out before her eyes. 

She’s never been queasy at the sight of it before, but as her mind turns to static noise and her stomach drops into the soles of her feet, she has never felt sicker. She realizes she loves him, she  _ really  _ loves him, not as a plot device or as a  _ “foil” _ or as anything she could’ve assigned them to in one of her books. She loves him, and her worry now isn’t never having the chance to say it. 

It’s never having the chance to experience why again. 

Never experience her hair whipping wildly behind her as they cruise through the streets on his motorcycle, her arms wrapped around his torso, the comfortable sensation of trusting someone _this much_ if even only for a short ride. Never grumbling over breakfast about who’s turn it is to try to make something (resembling) dinner that evening, no more warm nights spent at two in the morning, both of them laughing at something ridiculous until their sides began to ache, limbs entangled as one tries to jokingly kick the other off the couch. 

No more feeling the rush of trust and security and  _ strength  _ as their souls resonated, two becoming one and back to two again. 

 

Her voice is hoarse as she screams his name, and she is praying that God is a wit, that he has a sense of drama but he also has a sense of humanity; that he will let her partner live, if not for her, for himself: for the stories he has yet to live and the lives he has yet to save (preferably, _ with  _ her _ ) _ . Surely, a plot cannot progress without its protagonist, and in the moment, she is trapped in between the pages of a story she cannot put down out of horror. 

 

***

 

She is asleep by his side and still gripping his hand, tired and aching all over but his weight keeps her grounded, keeps her rooted to this earth where she is Maka Albarn: daughter of famous meister and weapon duo, future death weapon technician, in love with Soul Eater Evans, a boy with two last names and one soul and one smile that she would find hard to live without. 

 

She loves him, and she does not regret it.

**Author's Note:**

> i really like soumaka and am kind of a hot mess, bye


End file.
